Crimson Catastrophe
by midnightcoward
Summary: Booth and Brennan work a case that pushes them both to their limits, and into each other's arms.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Hello to anyone who reads author's notes. I have come to a compromise with myself (which is actually quite impressive since I am constantly disagreeing with me). I tried posting my stories all at once to prevent huge delays in updates, but with multi-chapters like this I don't like spamming people's inboxes, so I've decided to post a chapter every day or so instead. Hopefully this is an acceptable solution.  
As for this story, it's in Brennan's POV. I've written for her a few times already, mostly with the mindset that she thinks like she speaks. This one's a little different. I think she withholds a lot, and her being a writer, I decided to try making her a bit more open, and descriptive. Let me know if it seems too OOC! Anyway /giant author rant. I hope you enjoy this!**

**- MC **

The morning light slices across my face, blinding me.

The sun, having risen in all its golden glory some minutes ago, reaches its warm fingers towards my eyelids, illuminating the lacework of crimson capillaries weaving across them. I scrunch my eyes shut, willing my overactive brain, always working, always moving, to be still.

But it persists. And as if to strengthen my brain's rebellious resolve to deprive me of a full night's sleep; a sharp rap echoes at my front door. I groan and roll over, my hair spilling over the edge of the bed.

I know this knock. I know it like I know the creator of it is standing on the other side of my door, holding two steaming paper cups of coffee, and perhaps a brown bag containing sugary confections that I will eat even as I worry about the simple sugars they are made of finding their way to my thighs.

The knock comes again, and I relent. Sitting up slowly I push my brown curls out of my eyes and stumble out of bed, my feet slapping on the cool wood of my apartment's floor as I arrive at the door.

I am smiling despite myself even before the door is fully open, because I know the warm, sweet face that is waiting on the other side, already making my stomach clench uncomfortably with excitement and a glinting edge of happiness.

"Mornin' Bones," he attempts to greet, his lips having trouble forming the words around the colored paper bag of Dunkin Donuts he has secured between them. I do my best to glare, and frown at him for waking me, though I know that it is leaning more towards a reproachful grin than anything so melancholy as I was aiming for.

"Good morning, Booth," I answer sleepily, my voice still thick, my tongue languid and lazy in my mouth. I reach forward and take one of the coffee cups from him, and I am tempted to take the bag of donuts from his mouth using my teeth. As I wonder what he might do if I chose to take this course of action, he removes the bag from his mouth with his free hand and walks inside.

I close the door behind him, and take in the smell of him as I do so. He smells of spicy aftershave, and clean skin. I turn and see that he is already seated at my kitchen table, the sun streaming in through the blinds to cast his face into alternating bands of light and shadow. I watch him take out a maple donut – my favorite – and place it on a napkin.

I should feel uncomfortable at being so disheveled in front of him, wearing only an old FBI academy t-shirt and small black shorts, my hair in an unruly mass of curls around my shoulders, but I do not. I may have felt so around anyone else, but not this time. I sit heavily in the chair across from him and briefly wonder if he will notice that the shirt I wore to bed belongs to him, left from some hot summer night he spent on my couch after hours of paperwork.

He is already looking at his last name emblazoned above my left breast, and my question is quickly resolved. Again I should feel uncomfortable that he knows I sleep in something that belongs to him, that to me still smells of him, but I can't bring myself to.

My eyes meet his, challenging him to say something. He doesn't, instead taking a large bite of his donut. I smile, both inwardly and outwardly, and stretch my long legs under the table, my bare calf brushing the edge of his pant leg.

"So?" I ask him casually, watching his face, studying him in the way I know unnerves him. He glances up at me, his brown eyes warming with the sunshine flowing across my kitchen.

"So what, Bones?" He asks, smirking at me in the way he knows causes my stomach to flip. Not literally of course. But it sure as hell feels like it.

"Aren't you going to tell me we have a case?" I ask, taking a bite of the maple donut, and simultaneously resolving to go for a run.

"What?" he shrugs, his eyes teasing, "can't a guy bring a girl coffee and donuts in the morning?"

I laugh, low and throaty, and see him swallow because of it. "Of course he can, but at 6:15 in the morning," I add, glancing at the clock on the microwave, "something tells me you're not just here to hang out with me."

"You caught me, Bones," he laughs back, and it is my turn to swallow. "We've got a body dump out in Virginia, it's right up your alley."

"Do I have time to shower?" I ask, my hand subconsciously going to rake through my tangle of curls.

He leans forward and grasps a wayward curl, hooking it around his finger before letting it drop gently against my collarbone. "Yeah, you've got time to shower. I've got my coffee and the Funnies, take as long as you want," he grins.

My body still thrumming from even the whisper of his touch, I grin back and stand, taking my coffee with me, cradling it in my hands and feeling the warmth of it soaking into my palms as I walk towards the shower.

XX

Twenty-five minutes later we are speeding along the Interstate towards Virginia. The sun has fully risen in the sky now, its weak winter glow warming us through the windshield as we drive. I look to my left and observe Booth's profile, the solid slope of his nose, his prominent brow, his strong jaw, and then he glances at me and I am caught.

"See something you like there, Bones?" he teases.

I bite back a laugh and avoid his question, twisting a heavy turquoise stone necklace in my fingers as I question him about the scene.

"Well," he sighs, "I don't know much, really. All I've been told is that a body was found in a field in Virginia, very decomposed."

I nod quietly, letting the necklace fall from my hands and land gently on my chest, slipping between my breasts. He watches it fall, and then quickly overcorrects as we weave slightly in the lane of traffic. "See something you like, there, Booth?" I tease. I have definitely improved at this banter of ours over the years.

He colors, the tips of his ears turning a shade of pink I have never seen before, and says nothing. This is the game we play, and we have gotten very good at it. Perhaps too good.

What had started as a mild sexual curiosity has evolved into a more complex and intricate relationship than either of us has ever been involved in. I'm not sure which of us is more scared. But I know that there will be a day when the dam breaks, and we will face what we feel for each other, for better or worse.

There was a time when that knowledge would have sent me running for the nearest flight to a country with an unpronounceable name. But like so many things, it is different with Booth. After five years, we have both succumbed to what I have been trying to teach him all along.

Evolution is inevitable.

My mind spinning with these thoughts, I hardly notice that we have slowed down. Booth pulls to the side of the road, the gravel crunching under the tires. We exit the car and I pull my jacket more tightly around myself, the cold air making my lungs sting.

Booth comes around the side of the truck and hands me my kit, leading the way through the field of frozen mud and wasted corn stocks to where yellow tape can be seen glinting in the distance.

We approach and Booth introduces us to a Sheriff whose name I do not bother to take into account. My eyes are already locked on the glint of bone I can see protruding from the frozen earth. I step gingerly towards the final resting place of what I can already see to be a young woman in her early twenties.

The few officers and crime scene techs step away from me, watching as I bend next to the victim, snapping my gloves on. I can feel the ice on the ground biting through my jeans as my knees make contact with the frigid ground.

I can see that this woman spent a lot of time on her feet, in heels. Her right arm shows stress markers that show it was used much more strenuously then her left. Her clothes are nowhere to be seen, but some of her hair remains, a sandy blonde that is closely the color of the frozen cornfield that surrounds us.

I can feel Booth behind me. "What can you tell me, Bones?" he asks, his voice all business now; no trace of the teasing tone I have learned is reserved solely for me.

"A young waitress, probably middle class judging by her dental work. That's all I can really say for now," I answer, looking up at him, his face in shadow as the sun shimmers icily behind him. The plumes of our breath meet and mingle as we discuss how to best extract her from the frigid grave in which she lies.

XX

A few hours later, a belly full of diner food and a memory full of easy bickering with Booth, I begin my initial inspection of the bones. Ms. Wick, to my dismay, has come up in the rotation, and she has assisted me in piecing together the remains that now lay displayed before me. After having to silence her for the third time, I send her on a superfluous task so that I can get some work done, at which point I methodically inspect each bone, my eyes playing over every groove, and niche, one by one. I stop once to send particulate samples to Dr. Hodgins, but beyond this my focus is solely on the remnants of this young woman lying before me.

Time passes and I do not notice. I circle the body for the fifth time, willing it to tell me more. As I lean to hunch over the victim's vertebra, I hear Ms. Wick flouncing up the stairs to the platform. I can now see her on the periphery of my vision, nearly vibrating with the desire to speak. Her brunette ponytail flips from side to side as she shifts from one foot to the other. I sigh and stand up in exasperation, my concentration lost.

"Yes, Ms. Wick," I allow her. She rushes forward, encroaching on my personal space, but I do not back down.

"Dr. Brennan!" she nearly squeals, her brown eyes sparkling with excitement, "I wanted to tell you that Dr. Hodgins believes he may have found something probative from the particulates you gave him earlier this afternoon!"

"Probative how?" I inquire, my interest piqued.

She shrugs, the grin still plastered to her face. "I don't know. But!" she raises a gloved finger; "he said it was important, so I came to tell you."

"Thank you, Ms. Wick," I reply evenly, removing my gloves. I stretch quickly, my back sore after hunching for such a long period of time. The last of rays of the sun are hurling themselves across the lab in thick orange beams, glinting off the shining metal that composes my home away from home, and I realize I must have been examining the remains for far longer than I had thought.

I walk across the platform, my feet echoing on the metal, and scan the area for the curly head of hair that I am looking for. I spot him at his desk, eyes glued to a computer screen showing a magnified slide of some metallic substance.

He spins in his chair as he hears me approach, large blue eyes meeting mine as a smile spreads across his friendly face. I nod at him. "Ms. Wick tells me you have something for me," I offer as a greeting.

"Sure do, Dr.B!" he replies, spinning his chair back to the computer he points at the screen. "The metal shavings you gave me from her neck are a simple aluminum alloy used in…well everything, actually. But these particular shavings had something embedded in them that is in itself, unique."

"And what was embedded in it?" I prompt.

"Tomato sauce, and traces of oregano. Which makes me think this was some sort of pan used in cooking. You said she was a waitress right? Could be something." He shrugs and puts his hands behind his head, clearly pleased with himself.

"Good, thank you Dr. Hodgins, that's useful," I reply.

"What's useful?" Booth's voice echoes across the lab. Hodgins and I turn to see Booth walking towards us, hands in his pockets. I find myself irrationally thinking that I wish he would put his hands in _my_ pockets.

"Hodgins has a lead on the murder weapon," I reply, automatically stepping towards him. "Some kind of cooking pan perhaps, we're still looking into it. I know that it was less than half an inch thick, and had a curved, smooth edge. It was lodged into her cervical vertebra."

"So she was whacked in the back of the head with a pan?" Booth summarizes.

"Essentially." I reply. "Though to be more precise she was 'whacked' in the back of the neck," I correct, stepping forward and pressing my fingers to the back of his neck to show him. "Here."

I take my hand away and he clears his throat, his face slightly flushed. "Good, great work, Bones," he answers, putting a guiding arm around my shoulders. His arm is heavy around me and I like the feeling. "Let's call it a day, huh?" he asks, steering me towards my office.

"But Angela hasn't finished the facial reconstructions yet!" I protest as we enter my office.

"Well how long will that take?" Booth asks, starting to remove my lab coat. He pulls it from my shoulders and I feel myself slipping my arms from the sleeves.

"Well, several hours, I should think," I reply. "She's also running her dental work through some new identification software, which may take overnight."

"Exactly, Bones. Overnight, as in _tomorrow._ Okay?" he wheedles, holding my coat out for me with a wicked, and hopeful grin on his face.

I feel my resolve crumble and curse him inwardly. The old Temperance would have stayed all night. But then, the old Temperance never had anything better to do. I sigh, making sure he knows that I am acquiescing under protest, and allow him to help me with my coat.

We wave goodbye to our colleagues and walk out into the chilly evening. Booth's arm is back around my shoulders and I feel myself leaning into him, shielding my body from the cold with his solid warmth.

"So, what do you think, Thai again?"

I shake my head, my hair falling into my eyes. He absently sweeps it out of my face, hooking it behind my ear. "We eat take out way too much, Booth. It isn't healthy."

"So what do you suggest?" he asks, releasing me as we approach his car.

"Come over and we can make something," I offer, sliding into my seat, the faux leather cold enough to take my breath away.

"Good idea, Bones," he smiles, pulling out of the lot.

"Let's make something."

XX

The steam from the boiling pot of water is hot on my face as I lift the lid, pouring the pasta in and giving it a stir. Booth comes up behind me to peer over my shoulder, and I find it hard to tell which is causing me to flush, the steam or the feeling of his warm breath flaring across my neck.

I shiver and he notices, but instead of stepping away, he steps closer. "Almost ready?" he asks, handing me a glass of wine. I take it gratefully and glance up at him.

"Maybe ten minutes," I answer, sipping my wine as I go to stir the sauce. The French blues music he has chosen from my CD collection slips its way into the kitchen, enveloping us in its golden fog. This music always makes me think of walking down a street in high heels at night, the neon lights of a faceless city reflecting in puddles on the streets.

"What kind of sauce is that?" he asks, watching as I bring the wooden spoon to my lips and taste it.

"Sun dried tomato cream," I reply, holding the spoon out to him.

He takes my wrist and brings it to his lips. I watch motionlessly as his tongue sweeps out and scrapes the spoon, lapping up the white sauce. The "mm" that comes from him sends warmth sliding down my spine like melted butter.

He releases my wrist and I go back to stirring, drinking more wine. I half expect him to come up behind me and wrap his arms around my waist as I stir. I surprise myself by realizing this isn't so much of an expectation as it is a wish. I want to feel his arms around me, his chin heavy on my shoulder, his heart beating against my back, as I make this dinner for us.

As if reading my mind, he comes to stand so closely behind me that I can feel the heat from his body on my back. I wait for him to put his hands on my waist, or drop a kiss behind my ear, but instead I feel his large fingers circle my wrist again, and pull me around until I am facing him.

Before I know what's happening, he's leading us in a slow, sultry dance around the kitchen. I laugh as my hand automatically goes around his neck, my other coming up to meet his. I never knew you could dance to the blues, but apparently it's possible. "What song is this?" he asks, and his breath is so hot against my ear that my eyes flutter shut.

"It's called _Rêves d'Oasis,"_ I reply, breathless.

"Bless you," he jokes at my pronunciation of the guttural word, spinning me.

I laugh again. It's so easy to laugh with him. "My sauce is going to burn," I chide as he turns to take us around the island once more. The smell of him is causing my body to come alive beneath my skin; as is the feeling of him so warm and solid, pressed against me so tightly I'm sure he can feel my nipples through his shirt.

He sighs dramatically and dips me backwards, deep enough that my hair is trailing on the floor and I can feel his nose brushing my chin, before setting me upright. "Fine, party pooper," he teases, and I scowl at him over my shoulder as I give the sauce a final stir. "But keep your dance card open for later," he adds, going to set the table.

I smile, turning off the burners and lifting the pot of pasta to drain it. He chats happily to me about Parker as I set a colander in the sink and tip the heavy pot of water over it. The steam quickly bites into my thumb and becomes too much, I release the pot with a curse and the boiling water slaps against it before I can pull it away, the pot clattering noisily in the sink.

Booth rushes to me and I curse again as I see half the pasta is now lying in my sink. "Bones are you alright?" he asks, taking my thumb in his hand he leads me to the freezer.

"I'm fine, Booth, it's just a mild burn," I answer. "And I hope you aren't too hungry because I just lost half the pasta down the drain," I add, my thumb beginning to throb.

"Bones," he sighs, "you gotta be more careful." I watch in fascination as he takes my thumb into his mouth, sucking it gently as he opens my freezer. I can feel his tongue sliding hotly against it, his teeth pressing into the underside, and now the pain is long forgotten. My knees are almost wobbly as this continues; until he locates the ice he's looking for. Wrapping it quickly in a towel, he releases my thumb from his mouth and presses the ice against it.

"Here, keep the ice on it and go sit down, I'm taking over, Martha Stewart," he scolds going to the sink to scrape up the remnants of the pasta.

"I don't know what that means," I reply, sitting at the table.

"Let's just say she's the Temperance Brennan of cooking and household decoration," he explains, coming to spoon the salvaged pasta onto our plates. "Except you never did time in the slammer," he laughs, ladling sauce onto the pasta.

"W- a celebrity chef spent time in jail?" I ask, my thumb aching distractingly. My focus is now on his lips, remembering the feeling of them enveloping my thumb. My attention returns to him as he explains about her crimes involving the stock market.

"Well, that's not so bad," I muse, watching him take a bite of the pasta. "I expected you to tell me she'd baked someone into one of her pies, or something.

Booth scowls as he chews, "That's gross, Bones, I'm eating."

I shrug and take a bite before replying, "No grosser than anything we've seen at work."

He sips his wine, the light from the lamp above our heads catching in the amber liquid and sending refractions across his face. "Exactly, Bones. Let's leave work at work tonight."

"Fine," I agree, "how is it?" I bite into my salad, remembering the argument we'd had about how he needs to eat more vegetables, and note that he still hasn't touched his.

"It's heavenly, Bones," he replies, taking another big bite. "Thank you for all your hard work."

"You can reward me by eating your salad," I reply with a teasing smile on my face. He rolls his eyes and spears some spinach with his fork, shoveling it in his mouth. I laugh, absently turning my wine glass in my fingers.

"Happy now, Mom?" he asks, finishing the last of it.

I roll my eyes. "Yes, Booth."

He watches me eat for a moment, before finishing the last of his pasta. "How's your thumb?"

I shrug, taking another sip of wine. It's my second glass and I can feel it on the edges of my mind, warming my thoughts and the blood running through my veins. "It's throbbing," I answer, "but I'll live."

"Let me see," he asks, holding out his hand.

"Oh, you're a medical doctor now?" I ask. My stomach flips at the reproachful look he gives me and I relinquish my hand. He unwraps it, the flesh red and angry, and brings it closer to his face. For a heart stopping second I think he is going to put it in his mouth again, and my body hums in anticipation. I feel my tongue snaking out to run across my bottom lip, and I know he knows what I'm thinking.

He brings the injured digit closer still, and leans down to place a gentle kiss on it. I release the breath I hadn't known I was holding, and draw my thumb back. The air between us is thick, crackling with emotion and energy.

"I'll start on the dishes," I half-whisper, and stand to take our empty plates.

"I'll do them later. Aren't you going to dance with me?" he asks.

"You don't have to do them," I answer, ignoring his question as I fill the sink with water. I pull the closest pot into the soapy liquid, my thumb stings but I ignore it. He comes up behind me and snakes his arms around my waist, just the way I had wanted. His chin is heavy on my shoulder as he squeezes me gently, pulling me back against the hard plane of his chest.

My eyes flutter shut as the sensation of his beard scraping softly on my neck overwhelms me, and I let the pot I'm scrubbing sink to the bottom of the water, my hands floating freely. He starts to sway us as he hums in time to the music, and I can feel the vibration of his voice against my back. He turns me again, my hands dripping with hot, soapy water that slides down my arms as I bring them around his neck.

"Booth," I say, meaning it to come out in a scolding tone, but hearing it, it sounds nearly breathless. "You're getting me wet," I laugh, indicating my hands.

His whole body shudders with soft laughter and I realize what I have said. I can feel myself coloring, the telltale blush creeping across my chest and up my neck. "You know what I mean," I chuckle, and he pulls me tighter against him.

"Yeah Bones, I know what you mean."

I sigh and put my head down on his shoulder so I don't have to meet his eyes in my embarrassment. I feel his hand coming up my back, snaking through my hair, and it takes all the strength in me not to whimper with pleasure. I can see what is happening between us, what has been happening between us, the culmination of five years of loyal companionship and trust, all coming to a head on this day, at this moment.

My cell phone rings.

_Or not._

This time I can't suppress the groan of disappointment that escapes me, and I hear one echoing from him as well. I pull away reluctantly, my limbs loose and willowy, and retrieve my phone from the island.

"Hi, Ange," I greet, trying not to let her hear the disappointment in my voice. Behind me I can hear Booth taking over the dishes. I speak to her for a few minutes before hanging up and walking to Booth, the last plate in his soapy hands. Before I allow myself to think about my actions, I lean against his back, resting my head on him, my arms snaking around his waist possessively. I can feel him laugh softly as I say, "Ange made the ID. She wants us to come in."

He turns in my arms and plants a soft kiss to my forehead, and bending, another one to my cheek. "Then I guess we should go in," he replies.

"Yes," I sigh, looking up at him briefly before turning towards the door. "I guess we should."

XX

**A/N that's it for today, please let me know what you thought! I love hearing from you. -MC**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N thank you to everyone who left a review, favorited, and added to story alert. I'm so glad you're liking it! And I will reply to your reviews ASAP, I promise. I just figured you'd rather have a new chapter than a review reply. So here it is! There is some smexiness in this one, you have been warned. Thanks again, MC**

It is already late by the time we reach the Jeffersonian, the sky above our heads an inky, ominous black.

The chill is enough to make my ears burn as we quickly shuffle from the car, but I do not seek refuge in the warmth of Booth and he does not offer. We are all business now.

Angela is waiting for us in her office, anxious to go home after her many hours spent reconstructing a face that will never be seen again on this earth, except in pixels. The Angelator is up and running as we enter her office, shedding our outer layers in the relative warmth of the lab. The face of a blonde woman rotates on the base of the state of the art machine, her eyes bright and shining. Angela herself can be seen through the translucent image, the face of this young woman reflecting hauntingly in her large brown eyes.

She looks over as we come in, her solemn expression breaking into a smile. "Hey guys, how was dinner?" Her eyes are glittering in a mocking way that I know no amount of scowling will hinder.

"It was fine, Ange," I reply icily, hoping she will take a hint and knowing she will not. "What do you have for us?"

"Down to business, I get it," she acquiesces, rolling her eyes dramatically. "Well this is the victim, Our Lady of the Cornfields. Dental records say her name is Cory Taylor, 23. I don't have much on her beyond that, except an emergency contact number. She was never in the system for anything, criminal or otherwise."

"Hm," I reply. My eyes lock on the rotating face of the young woman. She was pretty, her eyes large and friendly, though Angela may have had something to do with this. She tends towards making people look happy, which I always found strange considering the line of work we are in, and the condition these people are in when we get to them. I suppose it is Angela herself that would like to think of them this way.

Booth chimes in from where he stands behind me. "Who's the emergency contact?"

Angela refers to the notes in front of her. "Annie Daniels," she reads. "She actually lives here in DC. From the looks of it, I don't think she's related but she could be a friend of the family. Here's her address," she adds, offering Booth a post-it note. He takes it, reading what she has jotted down.

"This isn't far from here," he muses. I feel his gaze turn to me. "Feel like making a late-night house call, Bones?"

I can feel the beginnings of a smile turning the edges of my mouth but I suppress it. I don't want to give Angela any fodder. "Sure," I agree, reaching for my coat. "Thanks for all your hard work, Ange," I call over my shoulder as we leave.

"Anytime, sweetie," she replies. "I'm gonna head home too. Don't keep her out too late, now, Booth!" her voice echoes behind us, biting at our heels, as we quickly make our exit.

XX

Annie Daniels house turns out to be an apartment, in a rather non-descript building in a rather non-descript area of town. Booth and I buzz her apartment number and she lets us in at the sound of the words "FBI". We enter her house and I smile as Booth introduces us, but my focus is already on analyzing her home. It is something I always do when I enter someone's house for the first time, I can't help myself. It's part of what I do, piecing together the objects and memories that make up a culture, a person, a life.

I half-listen to Booth apologizing for the hour as my eyes scan the walls, nearly every surface covered with a photograph of a moment in time that this woman believes was important enough to capture and hang on her wall. Birthday parties, backyard barbeques, graduations, nights spent in with the family. They are all here. I think they are beautiful. I would give a lot to have something like this.

We sit on a well-worn couch, and my eyes turn from the photos and porcelain trinkets to the owner of them. Annie herself is perhaps sixty; slim, with a friendly face and small, watery-blue eyes. Her hair is a salt and pepper brown, the fine lines around her eyes and mouth telling the tale of many years of laughter and happiness. It makes me feel uncomfortable inside to know that we have brought the opposite to her.

Beside me, his leg pressed against mine as he declines her offer of coffee, I can tell that Booth is feeling the same.

I watch her face, barely hearing Booth's words as he breaks the news to her, and I see something within her crumple. I recognize it well, that feeling, that knowing that your life has changed drastically in the matter of a moment.

She begins to weep and I shift in my seat. Booth is soothing her, asking her how she knew the victim. Although he doesn't say "victim", he uses her name, but I am already trying to distance myself from her, from this, so that I may work.

Annie confirms that she was a friend of the family, her tears clinging to the laugh lines around her eyes, trailing into the creases around her mouth where normally a smile would play across her lips.

"Cory's parents passed away in a car crash a few years ago," she explains, accepting the offer of a tissue from Booth. "She doesn't have any other family, but I was very close with her and her parents. And Eli, of course."

"Eli?" Booth asks, and I can tell his interest is piqued.

"Her little brother. He's nine. Cory is his legal guardian but I look after him a lot while she's working."

"And where is Eli now?" Booth asks, leaning forward with interest.

"He's sleeping in the guest room. Cory was supposed to be coming by to get him yesterday, I had him all week while she worked doubles, but she never showed. I figured she picked up an extra shift at the restaurant."

My focus slides to my surroundings again as I look through the pictures, finding who I believe to be Eli in a black and white photo on the wall. He is smiling up at the camera, riding what appears to be a brand new bike. My heart aches for him for a moment, before I quickly quell these emotions and do my best to remain objective.

Annie asks that we allow her to be the one to tell Eli, requesting we speak with him another day. Neither Booth nor I feel the need to wake this child and tell him he has no family left in the world, so we agree to leave and give him one last night of his sister, of the belief that she is still alive.

Suddenly a thought comes to me, and I speak for the first time. I feel Booth tense beside me; worried I will say something callous to this freshly broken woman. 'Mrs. Daniels, who will be taking care of Eli now that he has no legal guardian?"

She falters and I can see she has not thought of this. Booth is staring at me hard and I look anywhere but in his eyes.

"Well, I don't exactly know," Annie stammers, "I would be happy to take him here, I don't have much money though, and I have no legal rights to his custody."

Booth takes over again, "Yes, Mrs. Daniels we can put you in touch with a social worker to start the appropriate paperwork if that's what you decide you might like to do. You should be aware though that while the process is underway, Eli might have to go into foster care."

My insides writhe at the thought, at the sound of the word even, and I know that Booth is aware of this as he says it.

He asks a few more questions but my mind is again too busy to listen, and soon Annie is standing and we are taking our cue to leave. As we make our exit from the modest apartment, I see what I have been looking for, a picture of our victim.

Angela has depicted her face very accurately, and I am not surprised.

I do notice that this woman, the victim, really does have a look of friendliness in her eyes, and about her countenance, from the picture that I see.

It appears Angela did not fabricate this after all.

XX

The drive to my apartment is quiet.

I stare out the window, my eyes fixed on tiny smears that populate the lower half of the glass. I realize they are fingerprints. Parker has been allowed to sit up front, as a special treat no doubt. I can clearly imagine his delighted shrieks as he points to things he sees from his new lookout next to his father, his fingers smearing the glass in his excitement.

A small smile flickers across my face at the thought, and then I think of other little boys who do not have a front seat to sit in, or a father to sit next to, and the smile is gone.

Booth clears his throat and I glance at him. I can see that he is trying to find a way to speak to me, and accurately assess if something is the matter. As if to confirm my suspicions, he speaks gently, the car coming to a stop at a red light. "You alright, there, Bones?" he asks.

I nod, do my best to smile. "Just a long day I guess Booth."

He reaches over and squeezes my knee. He doesn't take his hand away as he releases, and his skin is hot through my jeans. It makes me feel nice, to be anchored to something so warm and real. We turn into my parking lot and the car is idling in place. Booth looks at me and I don't know what the appropriate course of action is. It isn't incredibly late, certainly much earlier than some occasions we have spent together. I want him to come up. But I don't know how to ask, so I just look at him.

He looks back and I can see a similar debate is going on within his own mind. I decide to make the decision for us this time. I unhook my seatbelt, letting it slide back and clatter against the door. "Goodnight, Booth," I offer. I can see the disappointment in his eyes, the same way that I can feel it in myself. But I know if he comes up he will try to get me to talk about things that I do not currently have the energy to contemplate. However, I decide to be impulsive, and lean forward to press a soft kiss against his cheek. The smell and proximity of him as I do so is nearly enough to make me change my mind, so I quickly withdraw, letting my nose brush along his jaw.

When I look back at him, the disappointment is gone from his face, replaced with mild surprise. I smile and exit the car, his "Night Bones," the last thing that is spoken between us before I shut the door and make my way upstairs to spend a night between cold sheets, alone with my thoughts.

XX

The next morning, as a peace offering, I arrive early at Booth's door with coffee and yet another bag of donuts. I realize I have not yet gone on my run, and resolve to do that this evening. I hear Booth lumbering towards the door, and I decide to be playful, putting the bag of donuts in my teeth. He opens the door and his face breaks into a wide smile as he sees me with the bag dangling from my mouth. He reaches forward to take it, his fingers brushing my lips and making my stomach clench.

"Morning Bones," he greets, taking one of the cups of coffee he steps aside to let me in.

I walk in and drop myself comfortably on his couch, pulling some type of action figure out from underneath me with a wince. I place it on the table and he smiles as he sips his coffee. "Sorry. Parker came for a visit."

"Sure Booth," I tease.

He laughs at my insinuation and sits next to me, so closely I can smell the warm, sleepy scent of him. He is wearing sweats and a white muscle shirt, and my fingers nearly itch with the desire to run along the smooth planes of his body. I notice his hair is stuck down on one side and my heart squeezes with affection.

"So what brings you here so early?" he asks, reaching into the bag to see what I have brought him. I silently wager a guess as to which one he will choose, and as he draws out his selection, a cake donut with white icing and colorful sprinkles, I laugh to myself. I had bought it with him in mind.

"What?" I ask, echoing what he said to me the previous morning, "can't a girl bring a guy donuts in the morning?" he laughs, and I feel myself grinning like a fool at the sound. "Besides, I thought we were going to interview the victim's coworkers in Virginia today."

"We are, Bones," he confirms, taking another bite of his donut. "I got the address of the place from Annie Daniels last night, it's sounds like Cory spent more time there than at home."

I wince inwardly at the sound of her name, and I take a sip of my coffee to disguise it. I glance over and see that Booth has blue and yellow sprinkles on the side of his lip. I have the most irrational urge to lick them off, my mouth beginning to salivate at the idea. Instead I reach forward and sweep them away with my thumb.

He swallows thickly as I do so. I move to withdraw my hand but he stops me, grasping my wrist gently in his large fingers. I can feel his breath hot on my hand, and goose bumps rush up the length of my arm. "How's the thumb?" he asks softly, looking at the still reddened flesh of my hand.

"It's much better, thank you," I reply, feeling ridiculous at how breathless I sound. My lips part slightly as I see him lean forward, snaking his tongue across the pad of my thumb, licking off the sprinkles. Heat slithers down the base of my spine and I feel a shiver wash over my body. I know my pupils are dilated and that my chest and throat are most likely flushed with heat.

He looks up at me, my hand still in his, and I wonder if he is going to kiss me. My breathing has significantly increased and my eyes are locked on his lips. He leans closer to me and I have stopped breathing. His hand comes to touch my chin, his fingers grazing my lips. Yes, he is going to kiss me. His eyes are studying my face for a moment, and then we both lean forward at the same time, our lips meeting briefly, chastely even.

We both pull back to gauge the other's reaction. I can see his eyes are dark and serious now. I put my fingers behind his neck and pull him back to me, my lips pressing hard against his mouth this time. I open my mouth and his tongue snakes between my lips, hot and demanding. I can't help the whimper that escapes my throat, and this seems to encourage him. He drops his half-eaten donut to the table with a soft thunk, and pulls me closer, his hands roaming over my back. I suddenly feel that I have about ten layers on too many. I realize this is an irrational thought, as I am only wearing three layers.

I release the back of his head, my tongue coming to meet his, and I quickly discard my coat, the buttons clacking on the table as I toss it behind me. His hands are back, under my shirt now, and my thoughts are no longer clear to me, but instead one big, non-sequential stream of words and emotions. Our lips smack as we pull at each other's mouths, teeth scraping, and lips sucking. It is the most passionate and uninhibited kiss I have ever experienced, and I feel that there is so much more I have to learn.

I pull back hastily, and his eyes are wide with fear that I am running. Instead I push him back, hard, against the arm of the couch and quickly straddle him with my long legs, cinching us together tightly. This feels much better to me, makes much more sense, and I wonder that I didn't do it sooner. Our stomachs are pressed together, my breasts crushed against his chest as my hands finally get the chance to explore him. As our kisses deepen, I wonder at the perfect angles of his body, his muscles like that of a sculpture.

His thumbs brush the sides of my breasts and I whimper, I can feel him rock hard against the seam of my jeans. I have never wanted anyone so badly as this, and to my surprise it doesn't scare me. I suspect this is because with all this lust my brain has no room for any other emotions. I grind myself against the length of him and it is his turn to moan, as he tears his lips from mine to drop hot, wet kisses along the column of my throat.

I can feel him grasping the edges of my shirt to pull it off, and as I am about to assist him with this, his phone rings. We both freeze, panting, and reality crashes down around our shoulders. I am nearly reeling with the sudden weight of it. Booth reaches around me, one hand on my hip, to get his phone from the coffee table. I am still straddling him as he answers, and his eyes are locked on mine as he speaks. I watch him watch me, his voice still low and throaty, our chests still heaving. My pelvis is throbbing, nearly screaming in anger at this torture of so much desire going unfulfilled.

The fact that my legs are wrapped around Booth suddenly seems ridiculous to me, and I wonder what came over me, how I could think that this would be an appropriate course of action. I quickly slide off of him, and he sits up stealthily, readjusting his arousal. As insane as it is, I feel a secret sort of pride that I have done this to him. That of all the woman that he could have in the world, and I know that there are many, it is me that he wants.

He hangs up the phone and the silence is heavy between us. I am staring at Parker's action figure on the table, its villainous face pulled into a perpetual sneer. I have the feeling that it is mocking me. Booth clears his throat and my chest tightens, I am so afraid that he will try to take this away from me, away from us. I know if he does so, he will be doing it because he thinks it is what I want, and I know I must find a way to tell him that it isn't.

I look at him and he has a funny sort of smile on his face. "I have to have a shower, Bones, and then we should go."

I nod because I cannot seem to find my voice to speak; my throat is so tight with disappointment. I feel ashamed as my eyes prick with tears, willing them not to fall. I want to leave, and consider doing so, until I realize that Booth has not moved from where he is standing above me. I look up, regardless of the tears in my eyes and he is watching me.

He leans down and presses a soft kiss to my lips, holding it for several seconds before pulling back slightly. He brings his mouth to my ear and whispers, "This isn't finished, Bones."

My mouth drops open, and he takes my ear lobe in his mouth for a fleeting second. I gasp quietly and he laughs, standing upright and walking to the bathroom. My facial muscles are aching and I realize that I am smiling so wide I might just split my face in two. I let out a laugh at the idea and go to take a sip of my now lukewarm coffee.

As I reach for it, the action figure catches my eye again, glaring at me menacingly. Glancing up to make sure Booth is gone, the door shut tight behind him, I knock the toy off the table with a sweep of my hand, leaning back into the couch with my coffee, and a satisfied smile.

XX

We arrive at the victim's place of work just before eleven. The car ride was uneventful, and I am surprised, and pleased, at the ease with which we can slip from personal to professional. Though admittedly, while Booth and I spoke strictly of the case during the drive, the back of my mind was thrumming with the memory of him, the feeling and taste of his body.

We enter the restaurant; the smell of something deep-fried engulfing my senses as Booth introduces us to the hostess, a young red-haired woman with skin so fair it nearly hurts to look at it. It appears that the establishment has just opened, and there is no one but staff members milling about preparing for the day.

There are interesting decorations, old vintage artifacts such as typewriters and gramophones set strategically around the place, the framework and tables made of dark wood, all in an attempt to give the place an old-timey feel, but for all intents and purposes, it is not exceptionally remarkable.

The hostess' face clouds over at Booth's news, and he asks if she was friends with the victim. Her reply is lost to me as I see a waitress exit the back kitchen with a large metal serving tray, placing refilled salt and pepper shakers at each of the tables. I nudge Booth and he brushes my hand away, continuing his conversation with the young woman whose skin has somehow managed to become even paler during the course of their interaction. Getting impatient, I elbow him lightly for the second time and whisper, "Booth!"

He sighs, turning to me, his voice tinged with annoyance. "What, Bones?"

I point in the direction of the waitress, the large tray flashes as it catches a beam of sunshine coming in through the window. "That tray could easily be the murder weapon."

The hostess' watery blue eyes become large, and her mouth opens slightly.

Booth turns back to her, his cell phone pressed to his ear as he calls in local PD and crime scene techs to sweep the area. We may have found the crime scene.

A short time later I am standing with an officer, examining the 17th in a large stack of trays that have been compiled by the staff. The crime scene tech and I have each taken a pile and are spraying the large trays with phenolphthalein. Booth is behind us, interviewing the staff members, getting the names of the people who worked with our victim on her last shift. I spray the 18th tray and my pulse quickens as a dark smear becomes visible, trailing along the edge of the dull metal. I hold it up to the cop next to me before turning to seek out booth. My vision is washed with yellow from the goggles I am wearing, and I absently push them back on my head as I call for Booth.

He glances over at me and I hold up the tray. He nods knowingly and walks towards me.

I set the tray down, removing my gloves and coming to meet him. The cop eyes us as we talk in low voices, but does not insist on being part of the conversation.

"You're sure Bones?" Booth asks me, his face grim.

I shrug non committally. "Well the shape certainly matches that of the murder weapon, and there is a significant amount of blood on it. But I wont feel comfortable saying for sure until we get a DNA test done on the blood."

Booth nods. "I haven't gotten much from any of these people. I'm thinking we should check out Cory's apartment in town and see if we can't find anything before we head out and get that tray to the lab.

I agree, turning to thank the officer and claim the tray, now in a large evidence bag, and instruct them to do a sweep of the restaurant with the ALS and let us know if they can find anything probative. The officer glances at me and I know he is wondering whether I have any authority over him, but I speak with enough of it in my voice that in the end he does not question me.

I turn to leave and Booth catches my eye, smiling. A rush of relief washes over me to see this, as he has looked so serious all afternoon. Then I realize that he is laughing at me and my face pulls into a scowl. He reaches out and pulls the forgotten goggles off my head, laying them on the hostess' desk and saying his last thank yous to the staff.

I flush a little and he puts his hand on the small of my back, leading me outside. "Unless you were making a fashion statement, there, Bones, because I can always go back and grab them for you."

I roll my eyes but I can feel the smile on my face as I mutter, "Shut up, Booth."

XX

The victim's apartment is not far from where she works. The sun is setting as we pull into the parking lot of the modest looking brick building, sinking like a blood-red stone on the horizon. Booth and I buzz the manager's apartment, and with a not so subtle flash of his badge, we are invited in.

The manager escorts us to the victim's unit on the fourth floor. He is short and has a bald spot on the back of his head; about as unremarkable as the building he manages. I see him look me up and down in a sidelong way as the three of us stand in the elevator, and I shift closer to Booth, giving the manager a frosty glare. He sees this and averts his pale blue eyes, sucking in his rather prominent beer gut haughtily.

Booth, who misses nothing, notices all this and suppresses a smile, but I can feel him shaking with barely controlled laughter beside me. I accidentally step on his foot and he stops. Joe, the manager, unlocks the apartment and hands me the keys, telling us to lock up when we're done. He leaves as we enter.

The apartment is stuffy, the still air of a space that has not been entered in days. I can smell vanilla and something else, a soft and feminine scent, in the air as I walk into the room, and I realize that this must be what she had smelled like. I decide quickly that I no longer like the scent of vanilla.

Booth meanders off to look through her mail on the kitchen counter. I walk past him, taking in my surroundings. Her home is simple, an open kitchen and living room area, two bedrooms off to the left, and a small bathroom beyond that. My eye is instantly drawn to a string of fairy lights strung along the base of her living room window. They have been left plugged in, and they cast the room in a soft, multicolored glow. It is not often that my job has required me to enter a victim's home, but on the few occasions I have, I have always had the feeling of being a trespasser. This time is no different, a feeling of guilt coming over me as I go through this woman's meager belongings. Her couch and floor are littered with clothing and papers, and it looks to me as though she left in a hurry.

I tell Booth I am going to look in her bedroom and he nods, distracted by the tinny voice of a woman on her answering machine. He presses a button and the message repeats itself. I make my way down the hallway, pushing open the door of the master bedroom with my palm. The room is dark, the sun having set now, and I fumble for a light switch. My hand gropes along the wall before I realize that this room has no overhead light. Picking my way by the glow of a streetlamp, I step over piles of clothing and reach for her bedside lamp.

Before I have a chance to flip the switch, I sense movement to my left. Booth's name escapes my lips, high-pitched with panic as I see the silhouette of a man coming towards me. He rushes at me with something raised above his head and swings at me. I dodge it and try to ram him in the solar plexus with my shoulder, but he swipes the side of my head heavily with his closed fist, sending me flying backwards into the bedside table. I smash into the lamp I had been attempting to switch on, and it shatters all around me like razor-sharp snowflakes as I slide to the ground. I look up, dazed, from where I have landed to see the shadow of my attacker looming over me, his fingers reaching for me in the darkness.

XX

**I know, I'm a terrible person. Leave me a review and tell me all about it! (honestly I hate cliffhangers as much as the next person but this was the best place to cut it off!) Anyway I hope you liked it, and I hope it didn't seem like I was jumping into the romance too soon. I didn't want to drag it out, as I've written this assuming they were already on the brink of breaking as it is. Love to you all! - MC**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: once again, thank you so much to everyone for reading and reviewing, it's lovely. As I have assured many of you in my replies, I'm doing my very best to make up for the cliffhanger on the last chapter by upping the ante from smexiness to SMUT. Consider yourself warned. Seriously, there's more smut here than you can shake a graduated cylinder at. I hope you like it, though there is a distinct lack of plot in this chapter. Enjoy!**

"Booth," I plead, my voice tinged with annoyance, "I said I'm _fine."_

"Bones, you got thrown into a wall, I'm allowed to worry."

Another voice interrupts our argument, "Look, I'm really, _really_ sorry man –"

Booth whirls around to my "attacker" that he has handcuffed to the bed. "What did I tell you?!" he barks.

The young man looks down, "No talking."

"Right, no talking, as in _don't talk,_" Booth growls before turning back to where I am seated on the edge of the mattress. He is kneeling beside me, his anger nearly palpable.

"Booth, there's no need to be so short with him, it was an accident," I chide. The young man looks at me with gratitude before a look from Booth causes him to cast his eyes downward again.

"You don't throw someone into a wall by accident, Bones," he reminds me with irritation.

"He thought I was an intruder, Booth, he had no way of knowing I was with the FBI," I add.

The boy lifts his head again, "I really didn't know, man, I swear I didn't!"

Booth looks at him, his gaze steely, and the boy's face grows pale, his lips pressed together. Once he is sure there will be no further outbursts from our captive, Booth turns his attention back to me, his expression softening as he runs a thumb along my jaw. His eyes are full of concern and I wince as his fingers play along the edges of the bruises starting to form. There is also a decent gash, approximately two and a half inches in length, above my right eyebrow.

As it turns out, this young man is our victim's boyfriend. He'd come to check in on her after he hadn't heard from her, and we'd walked in on him. It's a good thing for us that it had been him, and not her killer. It's a good thing for _him_ that Booth didn't shoot first and ask questions later. In all honesty when he had come bursting into the room, gun drawn, it looked like he might do just that. With all his gentleness, it can be easy to forget how lethal Booth is.

He leans in close to me, and I become uncertain whether it was the blow to my head, or his proximity that has me feeling light-headed. He puts his hand on my thigh and I confirm that it is Booth after all. "Well I called in an ambulance as well as the PD, just in case."

"Booth! That's completely unnecessary," I protest.

"Humor me, Bones, please," he replies. His tone is light but I can see the real concern in his eyes, and it is enough to stop me from arguing further. "Thank you," he says gently. I stare into his eyes, wanting to kiss him and knowing now is not the time.

"So…am I going to be arrested?" the boyfriend asks, his hand raised tentatively as though he is a student in a classroom.

Booth rolls his eyes but I see that most of his anger is gone. "Well, I don't know. You attacked an employee of the FBI, what do you think, bucko?"

The young man's face goes pale as his hand drops, the handcuff clanking against the bedpost. "Honestly, I didn't know, dude. I didn't even see she was a girl! I would never hit a girl on purpose." I feel the strong desire to interject with a feminist remark but Booth shoots me a warning look. "All I know is I came here to find Cory's place ransacked and then you guys show up, I mean what would you have thought?"

Booth freezes. "You mean her place isn't normally like this?"

The kid looks around, eyes wide, "No way. She's a neat freak. If I even leave a dish in the sink she blows a gasket." Booth and I exchange a knowing look. Someone has been to her home, possibly to destroy evidence. "Can I ask…" the kid says timidly, "why are you guys here, anyway?"

Booth's face darkens as he realizes what must be done. He takes a breath, and I give him a reassuring nod as he turns to this boy and says, "I'm afraid I have some bad news."

XX

I watch Booth from my vantage point in the back of the ambulance as he questions the boyfriend, whose name we have learned is Nate. The lights of the police cars wash Booth's face an alternating red and blue, distorting the features I have come to know so well.

A sharp sting to my forehead brings my attention to the task at hand, as the paramedic cleans my cuts. Her hair is a pale, pale blond, and it seems to absorb the color of the police lights as well, making her look like a punk rocker. I suppress the laugh that rises in my chest at the thought, I don't want her thinking I might have done any permanent brain damage.

The wound is cleaned and she applies sterile strips of tape to keep it closed. "I don't think you have a concussion, Ms. Brennan," she explains, and I opt not to correct her on my name. Instead I am mentally admonishing Booth as I had already told him this several times. "Just keep the wound clean and avoid alcohol for the next 24 hours, okay?"

I nod and thank her, and she steps aside as Booth walks over, his face grim. I find myself irrationally wishing the paramedics had a bandage for this as well. His hand reaches up to the cut on my head, the tips of his fingers skimming the edges of the protective strips of tape. "Are you alright?" he whispers.

"Yes, I'm fine. I told you I would be fine. I don't even have a concussion," I assure him. I can see that he is already blaming himself and I stare into his eyes. "Don't, Booth."

"Don't what?" he asks, but I know he understands my meaning. I can see his guilt in the slump of his shoulders, in the way he looks at my bruised arms.

"You know exactly what I mean."

"I should have done a proper sweep."

"Why would you have?" I ask, anger rising quickly in my chest. "She lived alone, the manager mentioned nothing about a boyfriend, the front door showed no signs of forced entry…need I go on?" He says nothing, only continues to look down at me, and I know we will not see eye to eye on this. I sigh, and I want to rest my head on his chest but there are too many people around, and suddenly I am cursing them all.

"Come on, Booth," I slide off the back of the truck and he goes to put his hand on my back, but he catches the eye of some officers and quickly drops it to his side instead. "We have to get that serving tray to the lab," I remind him as we approach the car. The crime techs have arrived to scour the apartment for trace evidence, their jackets flashing in the lights from the cop cars. "And then I want you to take me home," I add.

I watch his face and I can see that he doesn't understand my meaning. He somberly unlocks the door and we slide into our seats. His hands are gripping the wheel so tightly his knuckles have gone white. He doesn't realize that when I said "take me home", I intended for him to join me.

I smile to myself secretly.

He will.

XX

The night is quiet.

I stand on my balcony, looking out at the city below me. The frigid winter air bites at my skin. I'm not wearing a jacket because this is exactly what I wanted. This jagged, prickling feeling the cold gives me, like razor sharp fingernails digging into my flesh, takes my mind off the things I might be thinking of otherwise, anchors me here to this moment, to life.

I take a deep breath in and look up at the stars. They glitter above me like bright, icy daggers. I can now see why ancient civilizations used to be so obsessed with them, marvel at their beauty without ever knowing what they really were. It was Booth who taught me to look at the stars. It is him who sometimes makes me forget what they really are, too. Not burning balls of gas. Just beautiful.

He steps out onto the balcony behind me, the warmth from my apartment is there at my back. He comes to stand next to me, his strong arms leaning on the railing but not touching me. He says nothing, just follows my eyes to the sky. Both of our minds are heavy with our work. He with the burden of having to tell a young man that the woman he loves is dead; me with the knowledge that at this very moment Eli knows that he has no one in this world. Except perhaps Annie Daniels, if she chooses that life for herself.

I can't help myself as I begin to draw parallels between myself and this boy I have never met. Nor can I help the nearly overwhelming feeling of protectiveness I have towards him. These cases strike so close to the bone for me, they always have. I wish that no one, especially no child, would ever have to feel that emptiness of knowing there isn't anyone to wonder where you are anymore; and it breaks my heart to know that is a hope that will never be realized.

Booth heaves a sigh beside me, his breath pluming out in a misty vapor, trailing out like a ghost into the night. I know what he has had to do tonight weighs heavily on him. Something like that is never easy on a person, especially not someone so sensitive as Booth.

I look over at him, his face serious in the light of the moon, parts cast into shadow. I reach out and take his hand, pulling it from where it rests on the railing and wrapping it around my waist, tucking myself into him. He responds immediately, pulling me tightly up against him, winding his other hand through my hair, trailing them across my cervical vertebra, making me shiver. The night air hits my scalp and it feels so painfully good.

My hands are trailing lightly along his spine as I nuzzle my face into his neck, wanting to feel his pulse against my lips. I press my mouth onto this sensitive spot on his neck, so gently that I think perhaps he won't even notice.

He notices.

He does the same thing to me, his fingers slowly sweeping away my hair to give him access to this part of my body. His lips descend on my skin, open and wet, I feel his teeth scraping gently and my fingers instinctively clutch at the fabric of his shirt as I let out a breath quickly. The cloud of my exhalation disappears into the sky, perhaps to join Booth's breath, wherever the wind has taken it.

The stars shine down on us, their ethereal light illuminating the paths we take across each other's bodies, with our hands, our mouths. I trail kisses up his jaw line, my mouth becoming more insistent, my hands more eager to feel this man beneath them, to have him bend at their will.

Our breath comes faster now, and I no longer feel the chill in the air, my own body burning with the heat he conjures within me. When we met, there were only a few embers left on the fire that was my heart. He kindled them with his own heart for so long, the fire slowly growing over the years, a slow burn turning to a healthy, merrily crackling flame, and now, into an uproarious eruption like none other felt within my body. At first I was afraid it might consume me, now that is all I want.

To lose myself in him. To let go of everything and just exist, just feel. And that is precisely what is happening. I feel as though my body has been reduced to a vast network of nerve endings, the soft silken fibers of which he is playing like a concert violinist. As he sweeps my shirt from my body, goose bumps rippling across my flesh, we catch each other's eyes and both recognize in each other this feeling of…_rightness._ As though everything in our lives was leading up to this.

We come together again, the buttons of his shirt cold on my bare skin. I work my fingers nimbly down the front of his shirt, flicking them each open as he delves into my mouth, his tongue sliding along the ridges of the roof of my mouth, as though he is cataloguing every groove. I can barely control my shaking hands as I remove the last of the buttons, pushing the fabric down over the thickness of his biceps, breaking away from his mouth to sweep my tongue along his clavicle

I see that he has yet another layer on under his dress shirt, and he laughs gently at my frustrated growl as I pull it from his body, watch his nipples harden in the winter air. I slide my hands around his neck, threading my fingers through his hair as our bare bellies touch.

I slide my front along his and I feel the vibration in his chest as he growls at the friction. I know that this time, with this built-up, maddening desire, and the need we both have to forget what needs to be forgotten, if only for a moment, it will all be over quickly. But even as I come to this realization, I vow that next time it will be slow, and I will take the time to go over each and every square inch of this body. Learn it like I know my own. Because to me, it is already mine.

His strong fingers knead the flesh of my back; pressing me up against him so tightly not a sliver of light could fit between us. I gasp as I feel his erection, thick and hard as steel, against my leg. He snaps the back of my bra expertly with his fingers and it comes undone, the straps wilting around my shoulders. I break free from him to shrug it off, and he holds my gaze for a moment before dropping his eyes to my breasts. I can feel him becoming even harder against me as he takes in the sight of me, and it makes me feel very, very good.

Because while I have never cared to know the opinions of other men on my body, this time I care very much. He bends and I instinctively lean back, my arms hooking around his neck as he runs his tongue around my left nipple. My mouth drops open and my head falls back as he closes his mouth around my breast and does things I didn't even know were possible with his tongue.

I am panting, gasping, crying out his name, as I stare up at the night sky, the stars above me blurring into a swirling galaxy as my eyes fill with grateful tears. I am grateful, so grateful, for this moment. The stars spread and stretch and I feel like I am flying through space, like I have left my body and am experiencing something of another plane of existence.

He switches to my other breast and I am pressing myself against his mouth so hard, my eyes beginning to roll back in my head. I am begging him though I couldn't say what for, but it's all becoming too much and I pull his lips from my chest and bring his mouth to mine, needing to feel him more, so much more than this.

My fingers rake at his belt buckle, and he pushes my hands gently away when it is clear that in my frenzied state I cannot achieve what I want to so badly.

He undoes his buckle and I pull the leather through the belt loops, casting the belt behind me. It lands on the ground, clicking against the glass of the sliding door.

His pants are pooled around his ankles now and there is only a thin layer of cotton separating my hands from him, but his hands are at my pants now, evening the score. He sinks his teeth gently into my shoulder as he yanks my pants and underwear down, kneeling to help me step out of them. He kisses the insides of my thighs as he stands, and my knees are shaking with anticipation and pent up desire.

I yelp as his mouth comes so close to my centre that his breath nearly burns my sensitive flesh. He comes to stand upright and we stare at each other for another second, frozen in this moment. This is it.

I throw my arms around his neck and he picks me up by the thighs. My strong legs wrap around his waist and now his throbbing erection is pressed against me though the cotton of his underwear. I let out a sob as some of the excruciating pressure is relieved, and slide myself against the length of him.

He groans and spins, pressing me up against the glass of the sliding door. The cold of the glass against the searing heat of my flesh makes me gasp. His mouth comes down hotly over mine and we are grinding against each other, panting, pushing until I am nearly crying with frustration.

I pull away from him, unwrapping my legs and letting go of him long enough to rip off his boxers. The size of him is like nothing else I have ever seen, and my body shivers in anticipation. I step forward and take him in my hand, and it is his turn to drop his head back, his eyes sliding shut as my fingers take in the length of him.

But before I have even begun he pushes my hands away and picks me up again, the bare length of him pressed against the hot, slickness of my center. I slide along him again, my chest tight with emotion, adoration and excitement, anticipation and wonder, all mixed with an intoxicating lust like nothing I have ever known, and a love so deep I think it might make me crack into a million tiny pieces.

I feel him entering me and I can't help the high-pitched whimper that escapes my mouth. He is breathing my name from where his face is buried between the sticky heat of my breasts, and he is moving so slowly I feel as though time might have stopped.

But all too soon he is so deep within me, deeper than any man has ever gone, both literally and figuratively, and I feel complete. I am whole, with a fullness that surprises me, as I had never even realized I was missing something until this very second.

He pulls back to look into my eyes for yet another moment, and I see what he is telling me.

This is making love.

He pushes into me and I wrap my legs even tighter around him, making him groan as he thrusts again. He pushes futher and further, and the sensation is like nothing I could have ever imagined. It's as though my body is allowing me to feel things, sensations, it had been storing for this night, for this man.

We press into each other, trying to do exactly what he spoke of one night, in the dim light of the diner, trying to occupy the same place, to become one. He is whispering my name as he presses kisses to my throat, my eyelids, my ears, any flesh he can find. I am calling his name back as I take him in even farther, squeezing the muscles of my lower abdomen to feel him as much as I can, to make him feel me as much as is possible.

I run my tongue along his throat, I sink my short nails into his flesh, as behind us the lights of the city glow and shine, as if in encouragement. My back is sliding against the glass now, the moisture created from our coupling making it slick with sweat. Our rhythms are becoming more frantic, and it's difficult to keep my eyes open as I feel the beginnings of something, a white-hot light that starts at the edges of my vision, that prickles at the tips of my toes.

I call for him not to stop, don't ever, ever, ever, _ever_ stop, as this whiteness builds, the power of it growing with every thrust into my body. I am so desperate for this release, and so scared that it might not come, that I am wildly pressing myself harder and harder into him, gritting my teeth. He is begging me to keep my eyes open and I try, I really try. I catch glimpses of his face, of the night sky, the moon, the city, and soon they are all melding into one, a string of images that blur and mix and weave together until the white heat that has gathered in my body sews them all together and shatters them, ripping through my body with such force that I know he feels it too. I scream, my throat constricting, as his name echoes off the side of this apartment building and into the winter night. The whiteness has ripped through my whole body, exploded across my eyes until my retinas have been burned and I cannot see anything, only feel Booth releasing himself as well, and falling into me, we are falling together.

Tears are hot on my cheeks and I am gasping for breath as we sink to the ground, still joined. I feel ice-cold drops of rain splash against my searing skin, and the sensation is almost too much for my exhausted nerves to take. The rain comes down harder now, splattering over our heaving bodies, the ground beside us, plinking against the banister, trailing across my back to land on his chest. After a while, as our breathing has slowed and the rain has cooled our bodies, Booth lifts me into his arms for the second time and carries me inside. I find myself thinking, as he turns us to shut the door, that I had thought it was too cold for rain, that perhaps the heat from our lovemaking was enough to warm even the world around us.

I laugh at the idea to myself, and put my arms tighter around him as he slowly makes his way into my bedroom.

He kicks the door shut behind us and lays me down on the bed I have left unmade, which is so unlike me. I recall that I had been eager to get to his house this morning, and I smile to myself. How things had changed since them. How they have stayed the same, as well.

He lies down next to me and draws the sheets over our damp bodies, and I turn over and press my face into the crook of his neck, snuggling my body up against him as tightly as I can.

He strokes my hair as my eyelids become heavier, and just before I succumb to the call of sleep, he whispers into my ear, the culmination of everything he has just shown me.

I lean back to look up at him. His face is not expectant; I know he doesn't need me to reassure him of my affections with a response, he is not that kind of man. I believe he just wanted me to hear it, because he knows that I haven't had those words spoken to me in a very long time.

I smile up at him, my chest tight with emotion, and whisper, "Prove it."

He laughs gently, rolling me onto my back and sliding his hand between my legs, where I am somehow, impossibly, even wetter than I was ten minutes ago. He groans and suddenly I am no longer the least bit tired.

He closes his mouth over mine and the whirlwind begins all over again.

XX

The grey light of morning is not a welcome sight to my sleep deprived body.

I stand, disentangling myself from Booth long enough to rip down my shades and slide back into the warmth of the covers. My muscles are aching with the familiar twinge that comes only after a night of sex, and I stretch slightly before curling myself against Booth, my head on his shoulder as he lies languidly on his back, both arms thrown above his head now.

Feeling me against him he instinctively snakes his arm around the bare skin of my waist, pulling me to him. Just as I have settled, my alarm goes off on the bedside table and I lunge over to shut it off. My fingers fumble across the chunky plastic buttons, until in frustration I pull the entire thing from the table, plug and all, and fling it to the ground.

I can feel Booth laughing as I resettle myself against him for the second time, my breasts pressed against the bare flesh of his chest, and I reach up and put a hand over his mouth. "Shh. It's too early."

He speaks from behind my fingers, "Well you wouldn't have such trouble waking up if you hadn't insisted on taking advantage of me last night."

My head snaps up and I see his eyes twinkling with mirth. I press my lips into a firm line, scowling at him as I release my grip on his mouth and snake my slender fingers ever southward until they are wrapped around another part of him. His eyes widen and his mouth opens a fraction as he grunts my name.

"I'm sorry, Agent Booth, you were saying something?" I snicker, squeezing him gently in my hand.

He cries out and I feel a wicked grin slide across my face. "I take it back, I take it back!" he whispers frantically as my thumb swipes over the head of him and he jerks in my hand.

"You do?" I ask, kissing him hard on the mouth. I feel him nod against me as my fingers work a steady rhythm on his hot flesh. His strong arms lock around me and pull me slowly on top of him, pressing my heat against his now very rock-hard self.

My legs straddling his body, I lay the top half of myself against him, taking his earlobe in my mouth. My tongue snakes out and he cries out my name. I know I will never get sick of hearing this, know it like I know the bones of the human body. I can feel him throbbing against me and as I lift myself to pull him into me, he flips us over.

I squeal, which is not something I can say I do very often, and he laughs at my surprise. He takes the tip of himself and slides it along my opening, up and down, over and over until I am bucking against him.

"What was that, Dr. Brennan?" he asks, his eyes full of malice. I whine and press my body against his, squirming under him to try and get what I want so badly, what I know we both want.

"Booth!" I growl, "please."

"Please what?" he asks, sucking on my bare nipple quickly before releasing it. I cry out, and damn him in the same breath.

"Unnnnnnnnnnnh what do you want me to say?!" I plead, no longer caring that he is winning this game, only caring about the outcome. I writhe under him and I know it is taking a lot of will power for him to resist me.

My chest is heaving and my body is alive with sensation. I marvel at what he can do to me. My hands are pulling at his torso as he says, "I want you to say, 'you win, Agent Booth, I will never tease you like that again.'"

"Fine! Fine, you _win_, Agent Booth."

"And?" he asks, sliding the tip of him just inside of me, until the top half of my torso leaves the bed and I am nearly crying with frustration.

"And I will never tease you like that again! Okay?! Now _fuck me. Hard."_ I reply, hooking a leg behind him and driving him inside of me. I know the only reason I got the upper hand was because of being so vulgar, seeing his mouth drop open at my use of profanity.

But he needs no further encouragement as he drives himself inside me over and over, and I can think of no other better way to wake up. Who needs an alarm clock when you have Seeley Booth? Our bodies meet time and again, and I find the breath to whisper, "By the way, I was lying, I will most definitely tease you again."

He laughs as he puts a hand on my waist and pulls me even tighter into him, making me scream. "We'll see, Dr. Brennan."

In the heat of the moment it takes me a second for my brain to acknowledge the sound of Booth's cell phone buzzing from his jeans pocket on the floor. "Don't you dare answer that," I pant, as I see his eyes deciding between me and the device on the floor.

"It might be Parker," he gasps, thrusting into me hard enough to make my eyes roll back in my head. The love for his son is the only excuse I would ever accept for him to stop doing what he is doing to me, and I open my eyes to show him this, nodding quickly. Thinking he is going to get up, I am surprised when he leans over the bed, our bodies still joined, and grabs his phone.

He stops moving but he is still inside me, and as he flips his phone open he lovingly sweeps a strand of hair from my forehead that has been plastered to me with sweat. As soon as he realizes who is on the phone, his eyes widen a fraction, and he mouths the word "Cullen".

At the knowledge that he is not speaking to his son, a wicked thought overcomes me, and he sees it happening, his mouth dropping open in fear. As he speaks to his boss, I get my revenge for earlier by squeezing my inner muscles around him, and he has to fake a coughing fit to cover the groan that escapes him.

I laugh to myself as I see him debate sliding off of me, and knowing he won't be able to bring himself to do it. I start to squirm underneath him, starting a sort of one-sided rhythm, until he is forced to move the mouthpiece away from his lips to muffle the noises he is making.

I can feel his resolve crumbling and soon he is matching my rhythm, grinding into me as his boss yammers to him from his office downtown. I start to whimper as I can feel myself beginning to come, and he clamps his hand down over my mouth, driving ever harder into me as he nods and says "Uh-huh, okay…y-yep that sounds good."

I press his hand tighter over my mouth as I rock against him, the white light that I have come to associate with him and him alone filling my body, and causing a scream to build in my throat.

He is squeezing his eyes shut now in a valiant effort to remain quiet as he continues to plunge into me. "Yeah, boss. Okay! Yep! Uh-huh. What's that? No that sounds fine to me! Yeah, okay!"

He is trying desperately to get off the phone as he sees my imminent orgasm beginning to come, and I let out the beginnings of a strangled scream as he reaches down to press a silencing kiss to my mouth, the phone still pressed firmly to his ear. I can now even catch snatches of the conversation as he continues to thrust into me and the world starts to crash around my shoulders. The conversation is over at last and he slams the phone shut and releases my mouth, allowing the stifled scream of his name to finally be released, only to join his own cries as he comes with me.

My heart is pounding as he falls next to me, and I look over at him, laughter bubbling up in my chest. He turns to me, his face incredulous. "What?!"

"See?" I ask, rolling over to press a wet, lazy kiss to his mouth. "I told you I wasn't going to keep teasing you."

"Well," he pants, biting my neck playfully, "you just better watch out, Dr. Brennan."

"Oh?" I ask, sitting up and throwing back the covers.

"Yes," he answers, following me as I head for the shower.

"And why is that?" I inquire, starting the water, testing it with my hands as I sit on the edge of the tub, the cool porcelain biting into my skin.

"Because, my dear, this is war."

**A/N well I hope you liked it, please do let me know what you thought! Also I just have to say that the lastest episode had me laughing out loud, I hope all the Americans watching it tonight enjoy it as much as I did! (God bless those Canadian air dates) Love to you all!**

**-MC**


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Firstly, thank you as always to all the reviewers, you make my day! Nextly, I'm glad everyone seems to have enjoyed the gratuitous smut from the previous chapter. This one's a little angsty but hopefully acceptable. Oh, and lastly, GO CANUCKS! (for all you non-NHL lovers, that is my hockey team, and they are now yours too) Love to you all! - MC**

The memories of the last twelve hours are enough to keep the dark theme of my recent thoughts at bay, at least for a time. I work diligently in my office, reviewing Cory's medical records and family history before Booth arrives at my office.

His shadow darkens the doorway and I don't look up because I know why he is there, and I am not entirely sure I want to be a part of it. He enters the room slowly, coming to stand on the other side of my desk. I continue to read the files before me, or at least pretend to. His hands come down to rest on my desk, making the wood groan under the solid weight of him.

His fingers enter my field of vision and take hold of the file in my hands, pull them from me gently. I meet his eyes but it's hard to hold his gaze, I can feel him looking right through me, and it makes me feel naked, and vulnerable.

"Temperance," he says softly, his voice soothing me, assuring me. "It's time to talk to Eli."

I know he is waiting for me to respond and I bring my eyes to his again, letting the warmth in them comfort me. "Okay," I answer with a nod.

"You sure?" he asks me, his eyebrows raised. "Because I can go alone if you…"

I stand, grabbing my coat. "Let's go."

XX

We don't drive to Annie Daniels' home, or to a group home, but instead to the FBI office. I'm glad we'll be talking to Eli here, where I am at least marginally more in my own element. I know that had we been talking to him at one of those facilities I myself stayed in for a time, the rooms that smell of 409 and an underlying tinge of hopelessness, I would never have made it through the door. We enter the building and I find the palms of my hands sweating lightly as the elevator ascends to the eleventh floor. My heart and breathing rates have also increased, and no matter how much I remind myself how irrational this is, I cannot seem to control it. I become frustrated with myself, annoyed that every time a case involves children in foster care, I seem to lose any rational thought. Sweets would say I take these cases so personally because of my own dealings in the system; that I connect myself with these children. I would say I hate psychology. Even when it makes sense. Especially then.

I know Booth senses my tension, and I also know that he knows better than to question me again. But he does reach out, brushing his fingers against mine for the briefest of moments, and I am grateful for it. It amazes me, how much can be conveyed through a simple touch, especially from this man. We step off the elevator as the doors ding and open before us, the sounds of an office sweeping over us. Phones ringing, copy machines copying, office chatter all mixed with the smell of coffee.

Booth holds open the door of the interrogation room for me and I step forward, my chin titled upwards in determination. I enter the room and take my seat, and I see Eli in the flesh for the first time. He has dark hair that has been allowed to grow quite long, hanging into his eyes. His eyes are round, dark, and have an empty, haunted look in them. I can see my younger self in that look so well. The light dusting of freckles and teeth that are still too large for his head don't take away from the fact that while he may be nine in body, he is no longer a child.

His eyes search mine as I sit down, and I attempt to smile at him, before I think better of it. Booth sits beside me, but for once his presence does little to improve my mood. He introduces us, but Eli is barely listening to him, as I am only faintly registering his words myself.

I can't explain why but I feel like he has recognized a similarity between us and he is clinging to it, to me. Perhaps I am clinging back, and this is precisely what I had been afraid of.

Booth looks from Eli to me and back, before clearing his throat for our attention, and proceeds to ask his usual questions, though twisting them a little for a child to better understand. Eli answers them politely and evenly, and I can see that this mask he has put on is still very fragile. It will be some time before he perfects it, allows it to harden and conform to his face so well that one day he won't know where the mask ends and his own self begins, or if there is even any of the real Eli left beneath it.

I know that moment happened for me, and it was Booth that finally helped me to take it off, to realize there was still some significant amount of the old Temperance left behind after all. I find myself praying that Eli will find someone like this, to soften him just a little.

"So you can't think of anyone that might have been mad at Cory?" Booth asks him. "Nobody that she got in a fight with?"

Eli stops for a moment, his dark eyes lowering as he thinks. He raises them again and looks at me as he replies, "She fought with her boss at work a lot. She was always talking about him and how he was a grade A asshole."

Booth is taken aback at this young child's use of profanity, but as Eli watches me I make no reaction. It doesn't surprise me coming from someone who was raised by a 23 year old.

"You shouldn't say words like that, Eli," Booth says gently. "Even if Cory says them."

"Cory can't say anything anymore," he replies. Booth is silent. There's really no response to something like that.

"I'm sorry, Eli," I say to him, and it's the first words I have spoken. He looks at me and again I see a flicker of recognition in his eyes. Where with other people he may dismiss my apology as empty words, here I have to believe he sees that I not only mean them, I have felt them. He nods at me and I feel my throat constricting.

Booth stands to leave and I put a hand on his shoulder, lean in so my lips brush his ear. "Give me one of your cards." He doesn't question me and I love him even more for it.

I take the card and give it to Eli, who has watched our exchange with curious eyes. He takes it, looks at it, then at me. "This is Agent Booth's number. I'm with him most of the time. If you ever need anything, you call us, okay Eli?"

He nods again, holding the card tightly to his chest, as if it is a lifeline. In a way, it is. Booth thanks him and we leave, and I can already feel my strength crumbling. I rush past Booth to his office, so thankful the blinds are closed as I push the door open and lean on his desk for support. I feel as though the air has been sucked from my lungs.

I hear him shut the door gently behind us and come up behind me. He puts his hand on my neck and I turn around to bury my face in his chest. I don't cry and I'm grateful for it, just let out a shaky breath and cling to Booth as though he is my lifeline.

In a way, he is.

XX

I sit in a chair facing Booth's desk as he takes report from the crime techs, both the ones from Cory's restaurant and from her apartment. I watch him as he talks on the phone, my eyes following his lips, my thoughts drifting to the way they fell on my skin, the way they make me forget everything that is wrong with the world.

He hangs up the phone and says with a sigh, "There were several prints taken from her house that didn't match anyone in the FBI or police database, but other than that nothing of interest from the apartment."

I nod and he continues. "As for the restaurant, it looks like the techs found some blood spatter behind the bar that had been cleaned. They're confident that it was where she was killed."

"So should we run the manager's prints against the mystery ones from the victim's apartment?" I ask, leaning forward.

He smiles one of his devastatingly cocky smiles and leans back in his chair. "Already got the cops bringing him in, baby."

I smirk, "Don't call me baby."

He grins, wiggling his eyebrows, "Oh we're going to play that game again? Because you eventually warmed up to the name Bones, as I recall."

I roll my eyes, "There's a difference between warming up and giving in," I reply. I go to stand, "I'm going to go back to the lab and go over the bones again, see if there's anything I might have missed the first time."

He puts his hand out to stop me and I look at him. I can tell he's searching for the right words so I wait.

"Are you sure you're going to be okay, Bones?" he asks quietly.

I nod. "Yes, Booth. I know that I'm taking this case personally, as I do with all the cases like this, but for whatever reason I can't help it. I can handle it though. I really can."

He nods and shrugs, "Whatever you say Bones."

I roll my eyes for the second time, press a kiss to his lips and turn on my heel.

I have work to do.

XX

I tilt my head back, feeling the tense muscles ease slightly as I rotate my neck from side to side, letting out an exhausted sigh. The bones of our victim lie before me, spread out from my last exam.

"Long day?" Cam's voice echoes across the platform towards me. I turn, startled, to see the impeccably dressed woman walking towards me, looking as though she might be about to walk down a runway instead of across a forensic platform.

"Very," I respond tiredly, swiping a loose strand of hair out of my eyes with my wrist. I know she has to be professional, but I always wonder at how she can manage to look the way she does when she is essentially carving up corpses half the day.

She stops in front of the examination table, her manicured fingers curling around the edges of the surgical steel as she leans closer to the bones. "Let me guess. You're not any closer to finding out who killed her."

I look at her and give my head a simple shake. "I've been over these bones several times. I can tell you she was right handed, that she broke her left ulna when she was a child, and that she wore very impractical shoes. Something tells me none of this will help Booth catch her killer."

Cam smirks, her brown eyes warming me a little. "Don't be so hard on yourself, Doc. Sometimes the answer just isn't in the bones. But it's somewhere. And you'll find it. You always do." She smiles and turns, bidding me goodnight as she makes her way home.

I mull over her words, chewing on my lip as I discard my gloves and exit the platform, my steps hastening as I recall that there is one large piece of evidence that I as yet have not been updated on. I take the corner to Hodgin's work area quickly, and nearly smash into him as I do so.

"Whoa, there, Doctor B!" he exclaims, reaching out a hand to steady me. "I was just coming to find you, got a lotta stuff to show you from that platter. It was a veritable hotbed of information."

"What sort of information?" I ask, following him to his station where he brings up several slides for me.

"Thought you'd never ask," he smiles triumphantly and I am too interested in what he's found to be irritated with him. "Firstly, the blood does match Cory's, DNA confirmed it," he begins, pointing to the screen with a gloved finger as his blue eyes are flicking from one spot to another on his own screen. He is starting to speak quickly with excitement and I know that this is part of the job that he really enjoys.

"Next, there are traces of similar substances on this platter that match the particulates found in her wound bed, which is just a double conformation that this is the murder weapon."

I nod tersely, this is all information I had expected. But I know that he is saving the most interesting parts for last. "And now," he announces, "for the really good stuff." He brings up an enlarged image of something red and flaky looking.

I squint at it, "Is that paint?"

"Very good, Dr. B," he confirms, though I can see he is slightly deflated that I stole his lightening, or whatever that saying is. "Red nail polish, to be specific, Maybelline brand 'crimson catastrophe'. Looks like whoever struck Cory with this platter chipped their nail polish while they were doing it."

"How do we know that it wasn't there from a previous incident?" I ask, crossing my arms.

"Because it was embedded _with _the blood," he explained.

I smile, "Excellent work Dr. Hodgins."

"They don't call me King of the Lab for nothing," he bows.

I smirk, "_No one_ calls you King of the Lab." I see his smile falter and quickly add, "But perhaps they should." He grins and I turn on my heel to call Booth.

XX

I take my seat at our usual table at the diner, sliding into the familiar booth as I pick up a menu. Though I have had its contents memorized for some time, this process of flipping through the menu has become a ritual of sorts, and the tradition is comforting.

I run my fingers along the edges of the laminated paper, feeling the softness of it from many years of use, mostly by me and Booth. As I think of him, he slides into the seat across from me, and my heart flutters. I feel myself smiling as he meets my eyes, and ridiculous as it is, I realize I've been missing him.

He reaches across the table and picks up my hand, dropping a kiss on it before setting it back down. "Hi," he grins.

"Hi," I reply, feeling my stomach lurch from his actions. Pull it together, Temperance, honestly.

"So I talked to this manager, turns out he's been on vacation for the last three weeks. So I guess he's off the hook. Though he really _is_ a 'grade-A asshole'."

"Too bad we can't arrest someone just for that," I reply as Booth signals our waitress for coffee.

"If only," he answers. "Though I have to say the prisons would be at capacity."

"Hmm," I agree as our waitress places coffee in front of us, and a slice of pie for Booth, although he has not asked for it. "Well the manager wouldn't have been a suspect anyway, not unless he wears 'crimson catastrophe' nail polish," I add, sipping my coffee.

"I see your day has been much more productive," he says, his eyebrows raised in interest.

"Well, to be specific, Hodgins' day has," I answer. "He found nail polish embedded in the blood on the platter."

"So one of the other waitresses did it," Booth muses, his hands surrounding his coffee cup.

"Or the hostess," I add. "We just have to go back to the restaurant and see if any of the girls are wearing red nail polish. Maybe we'll get lucky and the killer will still have it on."

He begins to look uncomfortable and I pause, my coffee cup halfway to my lips. "What is it?"

He looks at me, then looks away. The "open" sign for the diner is flashing in the window next to him, painting his face in brilliant neon. I feel as though it is flashing a warning at me. "Well, Bones, maybe I should go and question these waitresses without you."

I set my cup down and lean back in my chair, crossing my arms. "Why?"

He rubs the back of his neck in distress and I can see he is not looking forward to this conversation. "Well, I just think…I think you're a little bit too close to this case, Bones. And now that we've got the information we need, maybe I should just take it from here."

"Booth, I am perfectly capable of controlling my emotions," I snarl, somewhat taking away from the point I am trying to make.

"Yeah, I can see that," he retorts sarcastically.

My anger is rising, I can feel it racing through my veins, tainting my thoughts, and the words that I speak. "You can't stop me from being a part of this. I've worked hard on this case, I deserve to see it put to an end."

"Look, Bones, you're right about that. But it may not _be_ put to an end if you happen to fly off the handle at one of the suspects, as you have been known to do in the past."

I freeze and I can see that he has immediately regretted his choice of words. "Fly off the handle?" I ask, my voice dangerously quiet.

He backpedals, "Bones, look, I –"

"You make me sound like I'm some hormonal lunatic that needs to be caged, Booth! And it's funny that you should criticize my ability to remain objective, considering your track record."

He balks. "My track record? Just what the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"That you've 'flown of the handle' a couple times yourself, Agent Booth."

He waves his hands in front of his face, dismissing me. "Bones, I'm not going to argue about this. You're too close to this case, you're identifying too much with the people involved, and it could compromise this interrogation. I'm doing this for your own good."

"For my own good. I'm not five years old!"

He narrows his eyes at me and I stand, finished with this. His expression changes from annoyance to panic. I throw a few dollars on the table and whisper, "Goodnight Agent Booth," before turning for the door. The waitress gives me a sympathetic look as I rush past, and I am shockingly tempted to knock the tray of coffee from her hands.

I can hear Booth calling after me, but I don't turn around. I know that if I do, the look on his face will cause my heart to melt, and I don't want that to happen. So instead, I jump in my car and drive away, muttering "_Fly off the handle"._

XX

_12:15am_

My alarm clock reminds me mockingly of the hour as I roll over for the tenth time in as many minutes. I sigh, my limbs twisted in the tangle of sheets I have created with my restlessness. _He should have called by now, _I think to myself. But he hasn't. Not even so much as a text in fact.

I sit up and straighten the sheets, casually checking my phone to make sure I haven't missed any alerts. Nothing. I won't let myself admit that I'm starting to get worried. _Have I messed everything up before it even had a chance to be something?_

I shake my head, refusing to allow myself to think about this, and flop back onto the pillows. I scrunch my eyes shut, willing my brain to surrender.

_1:43am_

_I should just call him_._ I'm the one who was out of line. He was just acting in the best interests of the case._

I stare out my window, hoping to see the soft sweep of headlights rounding the corner to my house, straining to hear the muffled sound of a car door slamming shut. Nothing. It's started to rain, the droplets that slide down my window distorting the night sky as they make their way to the sill. The moon becomes stretched into an oblong smear, the stars blur.

It isn't until the objects of my bedroom begin to blur as well that I realize tears have started to slip from the corners of my eyes. I brush them away, angry with myself (_Temperance Brennan doesn't cry over any _man), and flip onto my stomach.

_2:51am_

_Who does he think he is? Yes, admittedly I am taking this case personally, as I have already acknowledged; but he should trust that I am able to compartmentalize sufficiently enough to behave in a professional manner. If he thinks I'm incapable of that, then he obviously doesn't know me as well as he thinks he does._

_2:55 am_

I throw back my covers.

I never used to be like this.

Before _him _I was a completely rational human being. I never let myself become so worked up I couldn't sleep at night. Never became so illogically angry at someone that I would spend my night entangling myself in a web of sheets as I toss and turn in frustration; snippets of conversation looping through my overactive mind and relighting the flame of my fury each time I quell it. And I certainly have never been so overly emotional that I've ripped back my covers and grabbed my car keys, speeding through the empty streets at all hours of the night.

But apparently, this is who I have become. And, as I slow at a red light in a deserted intersection, the street lights reflecting off the wet pavement, I'm unsure what angers me more; our argument, or the realization that I am turning into someone I don't recognize.

My knock at his door is not unexpected.

He answers it so quickly that I know he hasn't been sleeping either, and I get some small satisfaction from this. He says nothing as he opens his door wider, ushering me in. As I walk past him, and the warm, clean smell of him engulfs me, I find that most of my anger has already dissipated. _How does he do that?_

I sink down on his couch and realize that for once in my life, I have no words. Normally when I know I will be engaging in an uncomfortable conversation I will plan an outline of what I might say, so that I can be as clear and articulate as possible. Now, I stare at the curled edges of a sports illustrated magazine he has sitting on his table, not looking up as the weight of him next to me causes the cushions to sink.

We are both silent for a time, the hockey players on his muted television flying across the ice in front of us, the pale flickering light leeching the color from our faces. His tap is dripping in the kitchen. He shifts, clears his throat, and asks, "Are you still mad at me?"

I shrug my shoulders, and look at him for the first time since entering his home tonight. "I don't know anymore. I changed my mind between being angry at myself, and angry at you, so many times over the past few hours. I can't seem to remember what I finally concluded before I got here."

He nods, and I wager that he has had a similar experience here tonight. I think to myself yet again that we are not so different as everyone believes us to be. "Would it help you decide if I told you that I'm sorry?" he asks. I can tell he wants to touch me in the way he leans towards me, but he isn't sure yet how I will respond.

I look at him, see the way his hair is mussed on one side, note the curves of his muscles under his thin undershirt, and feel a pull deep within myself, the same pull I have been feeling for years and have only recently been able to categorize. I decide then that this person I am becoming may not be so bad after all. She is more vulnerable, yes, it's true. Vulnerable to anger and pain. But she is also more vulnerable to feelings of happiness, though it's still hard to say that word out loud.

"Yes, Booth. It helps," I whisper. My throat is constricting and I am surprised at the level of emotion I am experiencing. I realize that most of my anger was actually fear that he had realized he'd made a mistake with me, this hot-headed, "fly off the handle" type woman.

We reach for each other at the same time, and he pulls me into his lap. I straddle him, my body sinking into him as I wrap my arms around his neck and heave a sigh of relief. I bury my face into him, nuzzling my nose into the hollow of his neck, in an uninhibited display of affection. His hands span my back, sliding down until his fingers skim under my shirt. We stay like this for some time, lulled by the rising and falling of each other's breathing, until he feels me drifting off against him. He stands, holding me against him like a child, and walks to his bedroom. From where my head lies against him I whisper, "Booth?, "

"Yes, Bones?"

"I'm sorry too."

"I know, Bones. I know."

**A/N well that's all she wrote! And by "she" I mean me. I hope you enjoyed, please review if you can find it in your heart. **


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Hello again. I apologize for the delay in posting this chapter, it's the NHL playoffs and that takes up much of my time. As does emotional eating, since we lost tonight's game. Anyway. This is the last chapter, and I just wanted to take the time to thank you all so much for reading and reviewing this story, it's so wonderful, and I'll catch up on my reviews very soon. I hope this last chapter meets your expectations, please let me know what you think, and as always, enjoy.  
-MC**

We leave early the next morning so I can shower and change at my home, before leaving for Virginia. Both of us are yawning, sipping at hot coffee as we drive along the interstate, recovering from what I realize was our first fight as a couple.

I pause, the searing coffee halfway to my lips. Is that what we are? It occurs to me that we have not spoken about it. I quickly push away the doubt that waits at the sidelines of my subconscious. Booth is not the type of man to sleep with a woman and leave it at that. Still, as I glance towards him, I cannot help but feel the need for clarification. I think perhaps I should wait until the case is over, or at least until we are not technically "on the clock". But his eyes are hidden by his dark sunglasses, and I suddenly (irrationally) need reassurance. Now.

"What is it, Bones?" he asks, his face breaking into a small smile.

Even though I had just opened my mouth to speak before he beat me to it, I feel the need to stall. "What makes you think something's wrong?"

He pushes his glasses back on his head, and the warmth of his brown eyes comforts me. "Come on, I can practically hear your brain working."

"You can't _hear_ someone's brain."

"Bones, quit stalling and talk to me."

I sigh. How does he do that? "It's not a big deal Booth, I was just curious as to…what the status of our relationship is at this time."

His smile widens and he looks at me for so long I'm concerned for our safety. "Are you trying to ask me if we're going steady?"

I stare at him. I know exactly what he means. "I don't know what that means."

"Never mind, Bones. Look, why don't you tell me what you're thinking, and then I can tell you what I'm thinking."

I look at the road in front of me, the white dashes of the highway flying past us with every second. I don't want to waste any more time than I already have. "Well, I think it's safe to say that we have moved beyond a strictly professional relationship."

He nods in agreement. "Yes, I think it's safe to say that having my way with you on your balcony sort of kicked that one to the curb."

I swat at him and his eyes crinkle in the way that makes my stomach flip. "And," I continue, turning my coffee cup in my hands. "I don't want to have sex with anyone but you. I haven't for some time, in fact."

He looks at me again for a long time. "Bones, I think that's the nicest thing you have ever said to me."

I bite back a smile, slightly embarrassed. He reaches across the console and takes one of my hands, threading his fingers with my own. "I don't want to be with anyone but you either, Temperance." The thrill that skips across my body is almost uncomfortable in its intensity, and all from just a few words.

"Alright, so, if you don't want to be with anyone else, and I also don't want to be with anyone else, then…then we should just be with each other."

"Right."

I nod. "Okay then. So…so what do we call this?"

He shrugs. "Whatever you want to call it Bones."

I think for a moment. The word "girlfriend" sounds so juvenile. And "lover" just makes me want to cringe. And then I have it, and it's so simple I don't see why I didn't think of it before.

"Partners," I say, trying the word in its new definition for the first time. The word leaps off my tongue, shining. I look over at him, taking my hand from his to curl my fingers around his neck while he drives.

"We're partners."

XX

We arrive at the restaurant, two officers already on the scene.

As the four of us enter the establishment, the same pale-faced hostess greets us, wide-eyed, and my eyes flick casually to her bare fingernails. Booth speaks with her briefly but my quick calculations of her body mass index and size have already ruled her out as a suspect.

Booth glances at me as she walks to get the manager and I give him a simple shake of my head. He raises his eyebrows. "You sure?"

I raise my own. "Of course I am."

He nods, realizing he should have anticipated this answer. "Thanks, Bones."

"And to think," I muse, "you didn't want to bring me."

He doesn't miss the smug smile on my face, and he gently laughs scrubbing his face with his hand. The two police officers watch this exchange with carefully uninterested expressions.

"Agent Booth," a portly, dour looking man in a cheap suit waves us over. The 'grade A asshole', I presume. Booth introduces us but I am already taking stock of the staff that mill around us, preparing for another day. Booth has asked for the manager to provide us with a list of waitresses that were working with the victim on her last shift. It appears all of them are here, and they are quickly lined up before us as though waiting for the firing squad.

No one speaks as I walk down the line, my eyes carefully taking inventory of height, stature, build. Each woman sucks in a breath as my eyes peruse their bodies, calculating. Soon, of the eight waitresses we were presented with, I have narrowed it down to three. Booth dismisses the others and asks for a more private location to speak to them, not wanting to bring them to the station when we were clearly so close. I have learned from him that the more time you give someone before an interrogation, the more opportunity they have to concoct a believable story. It's best to get them when they haven't had adequate time to fabricate anything.

Booth takes one of the women into the break room with him, a mousy brunette with too much makeup on. In light of our previous argument, I humbly take a seat outside with the two officers and the other suspects. I consider asking them a few casual questions on my own, but I know that Booth would most likely rupture a blood vessel if I attempted to do so. I also have to acknowledge that if I ask them a particularly damning question and Booth isn't here to notice the minutiae of subliminal indicators they may be expressing, the things they're saying without words, we might miss something vital.

Instead I choose to watch them, attempting to note any signs of stress that may indicate their guilt. I will never lose my determination to see what Booth sees. I think it's an admirable thing to aspire to; wanting to understand people. My clear gaze locks on the one sitting across from me. Her hair is platinum blonde, and straightened to within an inch of falling out. Her eyes are a muddy brown, and she shifts in her seat as I watch her. I know people find my stare unsettling, and I also know that it is against the North American social code to stare at someone, but I don't care.

After a time her face starts to turn red. "What?" she demands.

I try to suppress a smile. "Nothing." I continue to watch her. I search her fingernails for traces of red nail polish. She curls her hands into a fist. She's wearing bright red lipstick. I can see that she has drawn the lipstick slightly beyond the border of her lips, to make them look bigger, though the actual result is something rather clownish.

"_What?!"_ she asks.

"Do you like nail polish?" I find myself questioning.

Her eyes narrow. "What kind of a question is that?"

"A simple one," I respond.

She glares at me suspiciously but replies with a shrug, "Yeah, I guess."

"Do you wear it often?"

"Until it starts to chip. Then I take it off for a while."

"Hm." I study my own nails. Nail polish isn't practical for my line of work. But she doesn't know that. The other waitress, an Asian woman with stunning dark eyes and full, round lips, is watching the conversation with fascination. The officers are talking amongst themselves, uncaring. "I can never find anything that doesn't chip."

It seems her defenses drop a little at this, her shoulders lowering just a fraction. "Yeah you have to be willing to invest a little money for a good quality kind," she offers.

I glance at her, then resume inspecting my cuticles, "What kind do you use?"

"I use Maybelline brand. Crimson catastrophe. It looks good with matching lipstick, and for whatever reason I get better tips when I wear it."

My heart has stopped but I don't let it show on my face, or at the very least I try not to. "Oh yeah? I've never heard of that one."

Her face brightens a little at our 'girl talk', and she leans down to reach for her purse. She pulls out a small bottle of cherry red polish. "Here," she hands it to me, "it's good."

I turn the bottle in my hands, willing myself not to allow my fingers to shake. "Do you ever share it with your coworkers?" I ask, my eyebrows raised.

Her suspicion returns, eyes narrowing. "Why?"

I quickly recover, "Well, I'm a scientist, and studies have shown that fungal infections can be transferred between people who share nail polish."

Her nose wrinkles. "Gross. No, I don't share it, it's expensive and I can barely afford it as it is. Though now at least I have a good reason not to. None of the other girls really wear nail polish, it's against health and safety standards since we handle food. I do it anyway because of—"

"The tips," I finish.

"Right," she nods.

"Did you know the vic-, uh, Cory, well?"

"I thought I did," she retorts, her arms cross.

"What changed your mind?"

"I found out she was skimming tips."

I wrinkle my forehead, unfamiliar with the term.

"You know, she was taking money from the tip pool, more than her share."

"How much more?"

"A lot."

"Did you confront her about it?"

"Yeah, of course I did. But she lied, said she hadn't stolen anything."

"I see," I comment, attempting to buy myself some time. I certainly hadn't intended on my casual question turning into something so probative, and now I'm not sure I have the interrogative skills to carry this ball over the border, or whatever that colloquialism is. I find myself wondering what Booth would do. I can almost hear him in my head saying, _Sympathize with her, Bones! _ "That was very wrong of her to do," I add awkwardly.

"I know right!?" she exclaims. "I mean we all work just as hard as she does. I don't know who she thought she was..."

"Indeed. You all do the same amount of work, it's not as though she should be entitled to more," I continue, gathering confidence.

"Exactly!"

"You must have been very upset with her."

"Oh, that's an understatement," she spits. "I was fucking _pissed_".

"Is that why you hit her? With your serving tray?" I ask, keeping my voice neutral.

She bolts.

I'm cursing myself as I run after her, knowing I should have left the questioning to Booth. She weaves through the tables deftly, and I gain on her as she stumbles on a chair leg. Stunned staff and patrons can only gape as I catch up to her and knock her to the ground by planting my palms on her back and pushing. The forward momentum causes me to fall on top of her, and she grunts as I land on her back.

"Why did you do it?!" I hiss into her ear as I pull her arms back behind her. "It was wrong of her to steal from everyone, yes, but did you ever think to ask her why she was doing it? Her parents were _dead_," I stressed, leaning on her arm a little until she cried out, "and she had a nine year old brother to support. A brother that now has no family left in the world, thanks to you." I realize I'm hissing through gritted teeth, straddling her back to keep her from escaping, but I can't stop. "I think supporting a younger sibling is much more important than being able to afford another bottle of 'crimson catastrophe', don't you?"

"Fuck you," she grunts, "that bitch had it coming."

I'm fighting to keep myself from striking her when strong arms pull me back from behind. The two officers swoop in and cuff the waitress, whose name I realize I don't even know, as Booth pulls me to my feet. His eyes widen in horror as he turns me around, and I'm confused until I see the crimson liquid splashed across my front. I had still been holding the nail polish as I ran after her, it must have shattered as we fell.

"It's nail polish!" I assure him, "It's only nail polish."

His face washes with relief as he pulls me against him, "Jesus, Bones, you scared me."

I fold into him, even as I'm protesting, "Booth, you're going to get nail polish on your suit."

He rests his head on top of mine as he replies on a sigh, "It doesn't matter Bones. Only you matter."

A thrill ripples through my body at the words, and I am overwhelmed with a mixture of emotions. Mostly I am glad that everything is over.

He releases me, and as I had warned him, his front is covered in a smear of crimson catastrophe red. He throws an arm around me as we watch the officers put the waitress in the back of their squad car. Leading me out of the restaurant, away from the frozen scene of diners and servers that have paused their activity to watch the action, Booth looks down at me affectionately and smiles.

"What?" I ask, my own face breaking into a smile involuntarily.

"I really can't leave you alone for a second, can I?"

XX

"I knew she'd crack."

"What? How?"

Booth and I are in his SUV in the FBI parking garage, enjoying a moment of peace after the waitress's interrogation, and before the hours of paperwork ahead of us. The waitress, Belinda, had admitted to hitting Cory in the head after an argument, and then ransacking her home for the remaining stolen tip money. I look at Booth questioningly as he flashes me a cocky grin. My stomach clenches but I manage to keep my face neutral.

"Because. We let her stew in the interrogation room first." He leans back with his hands behind his head, smug as ever. "It works every time, Bones. I don't know if it's the glare of the lights, or the feeling they're being watched from behind that two-way mirror, but people get stressed being in those rooms. They'll rat out their own grandma half the time, just to get out of 'em."

"You would rat out your own grandmother to get out of the interrogation room? That hardly seems noble."

"What? No, not _me_, Bones, _them._ Bad guys. People with a guilty conscience. I'm not saying it works every time, but it helps at least."

"Well, that, and having good interrogative skills," I add.

"Which I also have, thank you very much," he grins. Now I'm not sure if I want to smack him or kiss him. I see the way his shirt is stretching over the muscles of his arms as they are bent behind his head, and I believe that it is the latter. But I won't give him the satisfaction, not when he's already gloating.

"My interrogation skills are also improving. After all, I'm the one that got her talking in the first place," I point out, leaning back against my own seat.

"Yeah, Bones, you also got her _running_ in the first place," he adds.

I scowl at him. "Hey, I caught her didn't I?"

"That's true, Bones."

"Besides, you'd have been proud of me, I was able to sympathize convincingly enough to get her to incriminate herself. It was actually quite exhilarating," I muse, a shiver of excitement rippling through me at the memory.

"I'm always proud of you, Bones," he says softly. I turn to look at him, his eyes smoldering in the dim light of the car, and I swallow thickly. My breathing increases. There is an entirely different kind of excitement running in my veins now.

"I-I told her about a study in which it was proven that sharing nail polish can lead to the contraction of fungal infections," I add triumphantly.

He smiles, let's out a deep laugh that makes my breath catch. "Okay, and?"

"I never read any such study! To my knowledge none exists, I was just saying that to get her to admit that no one else at the establishment wore the same nail polish!"

The smug grin on my face is wiped away as he leans towards me, his breath fanning across my lips. "You really are a genius, Bones," he whispers.

"I know," I reply, leaning forward to press my lips to his. I can feel his hands on my face as we kiss, trailing down to my waist to drag me into his lap. I gasp as I find myself straddling him, our lips meeting hotly, his hands untucking my shirt, my pants.

"Booth," I whimper, "Booth we can't do this here, what if someone sees us?" I'm forcing these words against his lips even as my hands are working at his tie.

"I know," he growls, "I know, I know. But _God_, Bones, you're so…I want…"

I'm practically writhing against him now. "Me too, me too," I pant, pressing hot, open mouthed kisses at his throat. "We have to stop."

"Yeah," he agrees, sliding his hand up my shirt to run a thumb across my nipple. I gasp and bite my lip. "We'll stop on the count of three, okay?

I nod, my tongue sweeping across his ear. "One," I whisper.

"Two," he pants.

"Three," the two of us groan simultaneously as we pull apart. I sink back onto my own seat, panting, sweating. Looking around I see the windows have all steamed up, giving the world outside a fuzzy, glazed look.

"Whoa," Booth sighs.

"Agreed," I reply, my chest still heaving.

We look at each other and I start to laugh. Booth quickly joins in, his deep belly laugh causing me to laugh even harder, until eventually our muted laughter spills out of the car, echoing through the empty parking lot, and into the night 

XX

My eyes are heavy with exhaustion as I sign my name for the nineteenth time that evening. The low lights of my office, and the soft music playing from my computer, only assist in making my chin drop to my chest briefly, before I shake myself awake and add the form to the growing stack of paperwork on the coffee table.

"You awake there, sweetheart?" Booth asks. I attempt to decide whether or not I should scold him for using this pet name, but I am tired, and secretly I enjoy it, so I let it slide.

"Barely," I reply, rubbing my eyes.

"Come here," he says gently, pulling me closer to him on the couch. He tucks me against him, wrapping an arm around me, and my head automatically drops to his shoulder. I bring my legs up across him and curl myself into his lap as I wearily begin filling out another form. "I'm glad this case is over," I say against his chest.

"Me too, Bones. I know this was a tough one for you."

"For both of us," I respond.

The steady rise and fall of his chest is lulling me to sleep again, but his voice brings me back to consciousness. "I called the department of child services today. Turns out Annie Daniels decided to keep Eli. He won't be going into foster care."

I lift my head and look into his eyes. "He won't?"

Booth smiles at me, and I feel its warmth stretching through my body. "Nope. He's gonna stay with her. He'll be alright."

I nod, speechless. My throat is constricting, and I have to clear it before I can respond. "I hope so." He brushes his fingertips across my cheek and I lean into his hand. "Thank you for calling for me, Booth."

He presses a kiss to my lips. "Anything for you, Bones."

"Would you still have told me, if it turned out Annie hadn't kept him?" I ask.

"What do you think, Bones?"

"I think you would have known that I'd want to know the truth. Even if it was hard."

"Bingo," he winks. "Though I might have gotten you drunk first, to soften the blow."

I laugh, the sound of it echoing through the empty lab. I reach forward and press kisses to his throat, and face, and finally his mouth. "I love you, you know."

"Yes. I know," he replies. He has kept his voice natural but his eyes betray him and I see how much it means that I have spoken these words out loud.

I nod, and lean my head against him, breathing in his smell as we return to the last of our paperwork. As I sign my name for the final time, my eyes drift to the pictures hanging on the walls of my office. A black and white photo of Angela and I, taken candidly, laughing.

One of Zack and I, my arm thrown around him in a rare moment of displayed affection.

Another of Booth and myself at a banquet. I am looking up at him, laughing, while his eyes are crinkled shut in mirth as he no doubt teases me about something.

A group shot of our whole team, even Sweets, standing on the platform together.

My eyes wander over these moments, over a plastic Smurf and a toy pig that decorate my desk, over Booth's face as I sit nestled warmly against him, and I realize I have exactly what I had desperately wished for when I was in Annie Daniel's home.

It turns out I had just been looking in the wrong place.

**A/N thanks again for reading everyone. Drop me a line and let me know what you think. MC**


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